


Professor Layton and the Persona Non Grata

by a_mere_trifle



Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [8]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Drama, Explosives, Gen, Human Trafficking, Interview, Journalism, diplomatic immunity, faked kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:40:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_mere_trifle/pseuds/a_mere_trifle
Summary: The circumstances under which a gentleman resorts to explosives.
Series: Professor Layton and the Gentleman's Treason [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/987004
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Professor Layton and the Persona Non Grata

Professor Jacob Starr kept late office hours, despite that-- well, honestly, because-- his students rarely utilised them. There had been an unusually high number of requests today, though, of course. He’d been hours convincing students he wasn’t going to comment, shooing them away. He’d finally taken a well-deserved dinner break, and returned to his office, hanging up his coat.

This time, though, the lights were on. “Oh, not again,” he breathed, before seeing the two women in his guest chairs.

“Professor Jacob Starr?” said the blonde woman. Her smile was easy and fanged; her hair was cut in a smart bob, and she wore a smart peach suit. Sharp, she was, and of course it put him on edge. “My name is Maggie Starling. I’m with the Times.”

He tensed. “As I’ve been saying all night,” he said, “I have no comment to make on the matter.”

“Is that so?”

“It is indeed, and I wish you to leave at--”

“Are you really so sure about that?” said the other woman. She had thick dark hair in a shoulder-length bob, a white shirt and pants in a noticeable shade of canary, and a troubled look in her dark eyes.

Of course he was. He started to say so, but the reporter interrupted him. “I’m here,” she said, “because something doesn’t quite add up in the official storyline, Professor.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you think so--”

“It’s all reasonable enough on the surface,” she said, “and in fact I suspect a great deal of it is the truth. There’s just one little detail I have trouble believing.”

“I don’t know what you’re--”

“I can promise you,” said the reporter, “this will be strictly confidential.”

“Says the journalist--”

“A journalist must protect her sources,” said Starling, “and my article isn’t published yet. Wouldn’t you rather it be accurate?”

“The police have already issued a complete report on the matter,” said Professor Starr.

“It’s hardly complete,” said Starling, and gave him a charming smile. “I’d love to hear your version of events.”

“I don’t see why I should…” Except there was one reason. His eyes darted to the taped-up window.

“Do you really,” said the brunette, quietly, “want to betray him?”

Well. That cut to the heart of the matter.

He walked to his desk chair, and took a seat. He steepled his fingers, staring at his desk. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell you. Or where you want me to begin.”

“I can start for you,” she said. “Two nights ago. You walked into your office, probably much as you did just now. Except, just as now, it wasn’t empty, was it?”

Professor Starr closed his eyes. It hadn’t been, no. But what could he say?

-

Professor Jacob Starr kept late office hours, despite that--well, honestly, because-- his students rarely utilized them. It gave him time to catch up on his reading, the requests for peer review, all the other tasks that filled a respectable academic’s time. He’d hung a notice on the door as he left for supper; he took it down as he returned to his darkened office, hanging up his coat.

It took him several moments to realise he was not alone.

It was the fluttering curtains that drew his attention. The window was open; he never kept the window open, not even in summer. And now that he looked, there was a dark figure, in a top hat, sitting in his guest chair.

“Good evening,” said the man. “My apologies for not sending in advance.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Professor Starr, reflexively. The figure was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him. “That’s what office hours are for. You were welcome to turn on the light.”

“I’m sure it seems quite silly,” said the man, “but I did have reasons. You are welcome to yourself, though.”

Professor Starr did, and turned his eyes back to the man on his chair. Clearly a gentleman, immaculately dressed, holding the rope-and-block puzzle he kept on his desk-- ah, of course. “Professor Layton! I thought you were on sabbatical.”

“I am, I fear,” said Layton. He smiled, a little wanly. “I wasn’t sure you’d recognise me. We do hail from different departments.”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Professor,” said Starr. “I’m not sure there’s a soul on this campus who wouldn’t recognise you eventually.”

Layton laughed, a little pained. “I’m still uncertain how that happened. Or what to think of it, really.”

Neither was Starr, to be honest. He’d thought the man might be inclined to make much of himself, but he seemed a perfectly amiable chap thus far. Still, different departments or not, it was enough to make a fellow professor jealous. “At any rate, what brings you to my office, Professor Layton?”

“I fear I have a particularly thorny problem to solve,” he said. “One which requires your expertise.”

“That being?”

Layton took a deep breath, leaning forward. “I need to collapse the floor of an occupied ballroom,” he said, “in a manner which is least likely to cause harm to the people above or below.”

Starr blinked. An interesting problem, indeed, but-- “Why on earth would you need to do that?”

“To make public the contents of said basement,” said Layton. “Regrettably, there is security on the premises, particularly in the basement region; furthermore, there would be little way of proving the provenance of any photographs. A police investigation would certainly bear fruit, but the authorities are both unwilling and to a degree unable to intervene.”

“How is that possible?”

“I fear this basement may belong to a foreign national of high status,” said Layton, “and as such enjoys certain diplomatic privileges. I’m not certain they would actually prevent him from being investigated and prosecuted, but he can easily convince the local bobbies that it is so, and at the very least it is definitely a massive hinderance.”

Starr frowned. “What the hell is in this basement?”

“...Yes,” said Layton, looking haunted.

Starr tried to parse that, and mostly failed. But the look in the man’s eyes...

“I have difficulty describing it,” said Layton. “The words… I don’t have words for it. And I don’t particularly want to remember it well enough to describe it accurately. But I can promise you that such a rash action would be my absolute last resort.”

He looked at the man carefully. Layton looked back, eyes meeting his, dark and steady.

“...I have a family to consider,” he said. “A reputation.”

“Yes, I was thinking it would be best if I staged a kidnapping,” said Layton. “If need be, you can tell the police that I forced you. They’ll be after me anyway, I fear.”

“I expect,” said Starr, “they already are.”

Layton sighed. “Is it common knowledge now?”

“No, but when a man lurks in your darkened office to propose the forceful renovation of property, certain dots become a little easier to connect.”

“It will probably all come out anyway,” Layton sighed. “But the less you know, the better.”

“All right then,” said Starr. “Let’s go.”

\--

“I got into my office,” said Professor Starr, “to find that the window had been broken. A gentleman in a mask was in my guest chair. He told me that he required my assistance in a delicate matter.”

“Did he explain what this matter was?”

“No,” said Starr. “Just that it was a highly delicate matter that required expert knowledge of demolition.”

“So after this cordial chat,” said Starling, “which you had in your newly drafty office, he overpowered you and evacuated you from the campus without being seen.”

“I have already explained this matter to the police,” said Starr, stiffly.

“Right.” Starling actually winked at him. “So, having somehow whisked you to his lair, he was able to threaten you into going out on a housebreaking expedition, without running the risk of your escape or your alerting passers-by to your plight.”

“I have already explained this matter to the police.”

“Is there nothing else you wish to say about it?” Maggie Starling tilted her head, her notebook at the ready.

That was the question, wasn’t it?

“There is, isn’t there?” said the other woman. “But will you?”

He steepled his fingers, weighing his words and thoughts and motivations carefully. “I shall refer you again to the police statement on the matter.”

“Doubtless you shall,” said Starling. “But what else shall you do, Professor?”

What would he do? What had he done? He took a slow breath, considering it.

\--

Their destination was, reasonably enough, a warehouse, cluttered with shelves and machinery and a very few creature comforts. Someone here was clearly quite the tinkerer, and he suspected it was the small man with absurd hair like devil-horns sitting at the table. “Good god,” he said, “you actually did it.”

Layton was entirely unfazed. “Your faith in me is ever a light in the darkness, Paul,” he said, and made his way directly to the tea-kettle.

“Starr, was it?” said the man. “I’ve heard your name around. Don Paolo.”

He shook the man’s hand. He’d also heard the man’s name around, but not in contexts that made it seem a wise choice to say so. 

“He used to be known as--”

“No,” said Don Paolo.

Layton shook his head. “It’s a perfectly--”

“Be cavalier with your own identity. You’ve no right to take risks with mine.”

“...Fair enough,” Layton admitted. “So. What information will you need?”

“Well,” said Starr. “The blueprints, of course, would be enormously helpful.”

“We’ve the public ones,” said Layton, gesturing to the table, “but we fear the place may have been extensively retrofitted.”

“Without the proper permits,” Don Paolo added, sardonically. He looked a little bit familiar, now that Starr thought about it. The man certainly had a distinctive face.

“Well, that’s a problem. Though either way, I’ll need to survey the place myself. This should at least be a start, though.” Starr settled down to look at the blueprints. “And of course I’ll need the explosives.”

“Not a problem,” said Don Paolo. 

Starr looked at him. “Chemist?”

“More of an engineer. But I dabble.”

An engineer? Then they might well have been in some of the same-- oh. Oh, that was right. “I remember now! Paul--”

“No,” growled Don Paolo.

“Right.” Starr coughed. “Apologies. I imagine the name has some baggage attached. I know nothing.”

“Baggage?” said Layton.

Don Paolo fixed him with a glare. Starr’s own look was considerably more quizzical. “Layton, are you some kind of idiot?” said Don Paolo.

“I don’t know what you--”

“_Schoolboys_,” snapped Don Paolo.

“...Ah,” said the Professor, and was quiet. 

Starr imagined he hadn’t found much respite in university, either, with a last name like that, but that was none of his business. “I can create the beginnings of a plan with this,” he said, “but I can’t do it safely without being there. I just can’t.”

“Are you willing to go?”

“Can it be done?”

Layton looked at Don Paolo. “If you both listen to me and do everything I say and don’t do anything stupid,” he said, “then yes. But we’ll have to be careful and quiet and quick as we bloody can if we don’t want to raise an alarm.”

“Another question is the timeline,” said Layton. “There’s a public event that would be perfect for this. However, it would leave us with one night.”

“It will require two trips,” said Starr. “Or one very, very long one. I’ll need to survey the layout and materials, create the plan, then actually set the materials. The latter of which won’t exactly be unobtrusive. And the quieter we need it to be, the longer it will take.”

“That’ll be the night trip,” said Don Paolo. “I’ve a plan for that. But there’s more people during the day.”

“I can handle that,” said Layton.

Don Paolo looked at him suspiciously. “What exactly are you planning?”

“It’s public enough,” said Layton. “All we need is a sufficient distraction.”

“And you’re going to provide the distraction?”

“I believe I can manage it.”

“Layton,” said Don Paolo, “what the _hell_ was in that basement?”

“Yes,” said Layton. 

“Yes is not an answer!”

The look on his face might have been, though. “We’ll need to be exceedingly careful,” he said. “There will be people down there. I’ve drawn a schematic from memory as best I can, though I do fear it’s my best guess. We’d have immense difficulty verifying it; the area is not public. And I was unable to take photographs. I didn’t anticipate that… I anticipated none of this.”

“I’ve also got a diagram of the table layout for the party,” said Don Paolo, “and it’s best you don’t ask how. It’s quite set in stone, though.”

Starr nodded, and looked down at them. The table arrangement was promising; most of them were toward the back of the room, leaving a fair bit of empty space to play with. The basement, though, that was the unknown. He frowned at the neatly penciled diagrams. “Are these load-bearing walls you’ve sketched in?”

“...I fear I don’t know,” said Layton. “Do the iron bars of prison cells typically bear load?”

“Iron bars…?” He stared at Layton. “There are _cages_ down there?”

“Ah, Christ,” Don Paolo sighed. “So that’s the shape of it, is it?”

“I…” Layton shook his head. “Yes. There are cages.”

“Why on earth would there be cages?”

“Because I know nothing of the world,” said Layton. “I’ve traveled ‘round it land and sea, I’ve delved into its past and present, and yet I never knew anything of it at all.”

“That isn’t a--”

“Just let it go, Starr,” said Don Paolo. “He’s seen actual human cruelty for the first time and he’s feeling all disillusioned and dramatic.”

“That’s hardly--”

“I’m fairly certain that’s a crude attempt to provoke me and thereby distract me from my troubles, Professor,” said Layton, “so you needn’t jump to my defense.”

“You take that vile calumny back this instant, you rectangular wastrel.”

Layton smiled, just a little. Starr shook his head, feeling very much the outsider. “I’ll… attempt to plan for both. Hopefully we can determine the exact parameters on the fly…”

“Not a problem,” said Don Paolo. “If there’s one talent we both share, it’s improvisation. Damn it all.”

“Well, perhaps notably different sorts of improvisation,” said Layton.

“When the hell did you make a study of gliders, anyway? _Why_ the hell did you--”

“I’ve a history with people trapped in towers,” said Layton. “Blame it on childish fancies. It might have been a significant factor in my early interest in engineering, actually…”

“...You know, you should really invite Ascot back to London. I can promise you I will definitely not kill him. And if I do, it will definitely be in his sleep.”

“You know he can’t reasonably be blamed for it, Paul. It was hardly intentional, or even predictable.” 

“What’s that matter? Do you have any idea how much _easier_ my life would have been--”

“Paul, let’s stop distracting the good Professor,” said Layton. “He’s a great deal of work to do, and very little time.”

Don Paolo grumbled, but subsided, and Starr was soon pulled deeply enough into the problem that none of their bickering could draw his attention away.

\--

“Whatever you might say of the man’s methods,” said Starr, “they were effective. And he certainly maintains the appearance of a reasonable man. I hardly saw the need to risk life and limb haring off into the city in some reckless attempt at escape.”

“Which would be how they threatened you into visiting the house twice.”

“The report says once,” said Starr. “And the report doesn’t say ‘they’!”

Starling shot him a sardonic look. “Right. One man held you against your will for two days, supervised your demolition efforts, and got you into the house past the security… for the one trip it took you to determine how to demolish the floor safely and set the actual explosives.”

“I didn’t say that safety was a priority.”

“And yet there were only minor injuries. You’re telling me that’s a coincidence, and neither you nor they saw it as a priority? And please don’t bother quibbling about the ‘they’...”

He let out a long breath. No, why lie about that? “Yes, safety was the paramount concern,” he said.

“And you only visited once?”

_(He’d been buzzing like a student the night before finals, using measuring equipment he hadn’t had to bother with in ages-- there were far superior options when portability wasn’t a concern. Don Paolo was on the opposite side of the hall; they’d tossed numbers back and forth, scribbled down notes, scrambled behind pillars and held their breath whenever security walked by. And they’d run by, later, as voices grew louder, ringing down the hall._

_“I tire of your game, young man.”_

_“I’m not playing a game.”_

_“Then you’re playing it very badly. I tell you again--”_

_“It can’t be permitted, Mr. Mountebank. It cannot be countenanced and--”_

_“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.”_

_“You showed me yourself!”_

_“Which I now see was a considerable error in judgment. I thought you a man of culture.”_

_“‘Culture’, dear god, what sort of ‘culture’--”_

_“Or at least enough of an Englishman to mind his own business.”_

_“It’s my business now.”_

_“It’s on my land, where your laws hold no sway.”_

_“It’s on my world, and some laws transcend borders, beyond codification. No government on Earth--”_

_“Excepting yours. The law is not on your side, Englishman, and you are trespassing on my property.”_

_“I’ll see this ended, Mountebank. I swear to you--”_

_The sharp sound of a slap; the shuffle of boots in a tile hallway. “Gentlemen,” said the man, “do take this trash away.”_

_“You haven’t heard the last of--”_

_Thumps, a muffled cry, a scuttle of feet retreating further down the hall; he’d met Don Paolo’s eyes in horror, but the man’s lips were pressed together grimly, and they turned back to their work all the faster--)_

“As I said to the police,” he said, “only once.”

“Which was enough to orchestrate the thing safely.”

“Later events would seem to bear that out, wouldn’t they?”

“It’s certainly a testament to your skill,” said Starling. “It’s quite fortunate that the Enigmatic Gentleman found you, and not some less capable engineer. One wonders how he managed it.”

“Who would look to anywhere but Gressenheller for a capable engineer?”

“Actually--”

“And surely a reporter of all people would know better to mention the word ‘Cambridge’ in this office,” he added.

She smiled wryly. “Where else indeed?”

“Good girl.”

“So, however it happened,” she said, “the preparations were made.”

“A single night,” Starr reiterated. They’d agreed-- the less chance for premeditation he appeared to have had, the better. And as an engineer, he was, of course, hardly averse to any embellishment that made him appear more of a miracle worker than he already was.

“That must have been quite the night.”

“Utterly nervewracking,” he agreed, “and amazingly busy.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Of course he wouldn’t. Of course he would.

\--

They had returned to the hideout, where Starr was relieved to find Layton already waiting, doing up a cold compress.

“Professor,” he’d said. “You’re not too badly hurt?”

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself, Professor Starr,” said Layton. “As thugs go, I assure you they’re rank amateurs.”

“Amateurs…?”

“My experience with such reprobates is regrettably extensive. I suppose I’m becoming a connoisseur.” His mouth twisted wryly. “At any rate, I am perfectly fine.”

“He has a thicker head than you’d expect,” said Don Paolo. “On all fronts. You can trust me on that one.”

Starr looked at Layton in perplexity; Layton just shrugged. Starr was feeling more and more as if this entire episode were just a dream, an absurd hallucination he would wake from at any moment. But until he did… 

He shook his head. “How long do we have?”

“Not long enough to dilly-dally,” said Don Paolo. “We’ve got to get these explosives sorted and packed. We should have some time tonight, but best not to push it.” 

“Then we should start,” said Starr, and knelt down to start gathering the fuses. He wasn’t regretting his decision, exactly, but none of this seemed quite real, and he was rather looking forward to returning to his waking life.

\--

“The details would likely only be intelligible or interesting to someone from my field,” said Starr. “Sufficeth to say it was certainly the most work I’ve pulled in a single night since my student days.”

“I’d figured it was the night,” said Starling. “Fewer guards. Easier to infiltrate. Of course the Enigmatic Gentleman couldn’t have been in two places at once. It would have made things much simpler had you another accomplice or two, one who could have distracted the night watchmen, or infiltrated their ranks…”

The woman’s instincts were entirely too good. Or-- she couldn’t possibly have found out about it from _them_\-- could she? No, if so, she’d have no reason whatsoever to be talking to him.

“It must have been harrowing,” she said. 

_Working in the dark, on his knees, in flickering torchlight, tools chosen more for silence than efficiency. Sweat dripping onto the cold tile. Heart hammering every time a guard walked past the doors. It should be Don Paolo, but the man’s disguise was good enough Starr couldn’t tell him apart by sight, and if it weren’t, this time, if something had gone wrong--_

“Yes,” he said. “It was.”

“And then it was done. And they let you out?”

“I escaped while they-- while he was executing the plan,” he said.

“Right.” Starling nodded, unconvincingly. “So when did you realize what you were really doing?”

He looked away. “When I saw your article in the paper,” he said. It was the truth, even; they’d sent him along after that night’s work, and he hadn’t wanted to return to that place, even if he could figure out a way to get in. He’d waited in the hideout, long enough to maintain credibility, and he’d headed for the nearest police station, with his thin excuse of a story. They hadn’t let many details slip. He’d had to read it in the paper that--

It occurred to him suddenly that he could turn the tables on her. “You were there,” he said. “So tell me-- how did it happen?” 

“You read the article, didn’t you?”

“And you read the police report,” he said. “How did it happen?”

She was silent for a moment. “Another party,” she said, “like all such parties, all gossip and idle conversation about various absurd topics I’d never have given a second thought to before I started this gig. I was waiting for it, and it was unendurable.”

“Waiting for it?”

“He leaves us tips, once in a while. I’d never liked Peter Mountebank. He was slippery. I don’t trust slippery men. It was obvious enough he had his eye out for the main chance, but even I didn’t realize that was just a cover.”

She looked out Starr’s window. “After considerably too long, he finally interrupted the entrées with a smoke bomb, as is his wont. That voice of his carries quite nicely though a hall, doesn’t it? As if he’d practised it somewhere.”

Starr stayed very quiet. Starling went on. “Mountebank just laughed, of course. ‘Hello again, Englishman.’” Her imitation of his accent was excellent. “‘Here with more hollow threats, I assume?’ The gentleman said, ‘Here to keep a promise.’”

She drummed her fingers on his desk. “Mountebank was all sneers. What was that nonsense he started on? ‘I look forward to seeing you try. Pitiful man, hiding behind a pitiful mask. This is my land, not yours. What do you think you can do here?’”

She tilted her head back. “That was when he raised a hand--” She raised her own, slowly, grandly, a gesture of summoning. “And the charges went off, in perfect rows. Excellent work, by the way, Professor. Like firecrackers, they went off, and the floor started to creak and shake and give way.”

She looked at him, propping her head in her hand. “Now, I’m a reporter, and I’m told I can be a little too focused at times. Mellie was there to take the photos. I was looking at him. He was staring straight at Mountebank; his eyes didn’t waver a bit. I think he wanted to watch, and I turned to see what he was looking at. The man was just shocked, at first, but then it started to dawn on him, and I’ve rarely seen such a look of perfect horror. It all made sense later, of course. It was starting to make sense even then. There was one kind of screaming when the guests were tumbling into the basement. And another entirely after they fell.”

Starr could imagine. The photographs had mostly been relegated to the inside pages, and he suspected they’d been very carefully curated. The woman in the pale dress, bones jutting out far enough to be clearly visible even in a grainy newspaper photograph, staring out with deadened eyes. The child in the dirty grey frock, eyes wide, small hands clutching the bars, mouth open in a cry. Those eyes were haunting him. He was just as glad he hadn’t been there to see.

“Mountebank looked up at him. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Nor was the gentleman, though he certainly looked satisfied. He tugged his hat; he bowed. And he was gone.”

Starr nodded, slowly. “Have they found Mountebank yet?”

“He’s still on the run, but I think they will. The coppers don’t like it when there’s children involved. And they don’t like being made fools of.” She grimaced. “No word on prosecution yet. It would probably have to happen in his home country. He has been officially declared persona non grata, however. For whatever good that does.”

“I’m afraid I’m a little vague on what exactly that means,” said Starr.

“Unwelcome person, I believe,” said Starling. “England will no longer tolerate his presence.”

“As well we shouldn’t.” 

“A pity we ever did,” said Starling. “But then, how were we to know? How else could we have found out?”

“If someone escaped,” said Starr, “or if Mountebank misjudged a potential… client… but then, they’d have had to make it to the police, and the police would have had to believe them, and even if they did--”

“--they’d have great difficulty securing a warrant, and the man would almost certainly have caught wind of it even if they were legally able to manage it. Which would have given him time to attempt to hide the evidence… one shudders to think of how.”

“It was certainly less than legal,” said Starr. “But might it have been necessary?”

“One wonders,” said Starling. “Of course, we can’t just come right out and say that. As a reporter, one can’t condone such vigilante action. It’s dangerous, sets awful precedents…”

“But one wonders if, on very rare occasions, it might be the least distasteful option.”

“But it’s impossible to know the true circumstances,” said Starling. “I can hardly talk to the man. I don’t know his motivations. To the public, he’s a vigilante, possibly a paranoid and crazed one. A gentleman, still, ostensibly, but what sort of gentleman resorts to explosives?”

Starr looked at her, and considered what she was saying, as well as what she wasn’t. He thought, perhaps, he knew now why she was here. “But you can talk to me.”

“Yes,” she said. “So, what have you to say?”

He looked at her; he looked at the camerawoman, who was still silent, a sober question in her dark eyes. _Do you really want to betray him?_

It had been their agreement. But no… no, he didn’t. And perhaps Starling was here to offer him a middle way.

He considered a moment more, and took a deep breath, placing his hands flat on his desk. “I will say this. Regardless of whether I was forced into it under duress, I am proud of what I did. It was a public service, and it was the right thing to do. If the Enigmatic Gentleman wants my help again, I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

“May I quote you on that?” said Starling.

“Yes,” said Professor Starr. “Please do.”

“I thought as much,” said Starling, and closed her notebook. “Thank you very much, Professor.”

“Just… I’m placing my trust in you, Ms. Starling,” said the Professor. “Don’t let it be unfounded.”

“It won’t be,” she said.

His part in this was over; it was just as well, and he was just as glad of it, to be honest. All he could do was hope she was correct.

\--

The night was cold, and clear enough that a star or two seemed to peek out even through London’s haze of light. Of course, it was entirely possible those were airships. Maggie Starling was a journalist, not an astronomer, and she prided herself on knowing her limits. She just had a considerably different idea of what they were than anyone else did. “Well,” she said. “That was quite the interview.”

“It was.”

It had gone just about as expected, though. She looked back at her photographer, with a measuring eye. “You were right.”

“Well, you saw it too,” Mellie said, sticking her hands in her pockets. “There wasn’t any way that kidnapping story held water.”

Yes, but she’d known it rather before the evidence started pointing that way. “Mel,” she said, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Hmm?” Mel looked at her with innocent eyes. She didn’t look as if she were on edge at all. Where had this woman come from, anyway? She was the best liar Maggie had ever met.

“I’m going to find the Enigmatic Gentleman,” said Maggie.

Mel’s lips pressed together tight. “But if you find out who he is, if the world discovers it-- things will get awfully difficult for him. After all this, are you really all right with that?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Maggie, and tilted her head. “If the world discovers it? Mel, you of all people should know a reporter never, ever betrays her source.”

Mel’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she breathed. “An interview…?”

“If I can swing it,” said Maggie. “Of course, the question would be how to get in contact with him. I could make an educated guess as to his true identity, though I doubt he’s accepting strange correspondence at the moment. What would really be fantastic would be if I had an in-- somebody who knew the man. Somebody who could vouch for me. Somebody who could tell me how to get his attention.”

Mel looked at her. Maggie looked back. Mel’s eyes weren’t giving anything away, but Maggie could be patient, if the prize was valuable enough.

“...You’ve figured it out, have you?” she said, sounding resigned.

“You’re good,” said Maggie, “but I got into this line of work for a reason, you know.”

“I didn’t think I could keep it secret forever,” said Mel. “Then again, I never thought I’d have to. I never in a million years would have thought he’d…” She shook her head. “I mean, maybe I should have, on reflection, but…”

“I’d find him with or without you,” said Maggie. “But the sooner I find him, the sooner I can protect him. If it comes out any other way-- if he isn’t a source-- then yes, we will tell the world, all of it. If we don’t get his side of the story, we’ll have to tell the sides we know. But if I hear it from him-- I can tell his side to the world. And that will make it considerably harder for this alleged wide-ranging conspiracy to do him in.”

Mel looked at her, chewing at her lip. She had enough evidence to have an idea of what might be going through her mind. _“Do you really want to betray him?”_

“So it comes to this,” said Maggie. “Will you trust me?”

The wind blew Mel’s curls against her face. Maggie waited, patiently, cat in front of the mouse-hole. Mellie, she well knew by now, was far from a mouse; but cats could stick together, once in a while.

“If you want his attention,” said Mel, quietly, “put it in a puzzle. He won’t be able to resist.”

She didn’t say anything else, but she hardly had to. All the evidence had been stacking against the man anyway. It wasn’t enough for a court of law, but it was enough that Maggie had held a very strong hunch for some time. 

The Puzzle Professor.

But she didn’t officially know that, so she didn’t have to say. “A puzzle, hmm? Do you happen to know any good ones?”

Mel smiled, wryly. “Well, you know, I just might…”

-


End file.
